Lie To Me
by ThomE.Gemcity-06
Summary: "I hated working with you, Peril." "You are a terrible spy, Cowboy." One of these is the truth. Or are they both lies? Includes: Illya/Napoleon, Illya&Gaby, Napoleon/Gaby.
— **Disclaimer: I don't own The Man From U.N.C.L.E., but I love it anyways. :)**

 **a/n: So, this is my first The Man From U.N.C.L.E. fic, I really hope you like it and the characters aren't too OOC for you. :) SLight spoilers for movie.**

 **Summary:** "I hated working with you, Peril." "You are a terrible spy, Cowboy." One of these is the truth. Or are they both lies?

 **Coupling:** Illya/Napoleon (nothing graphic, just matters of the heart), Illya&Gaby, Napoleon/Gaby (briefly).

 **The Man From U.N.C.L.E.**

* * *

 **Lie To Me**

"I hated working with you, Peril." Napoleon raised his glass in salute to the stout Russian. "Let's hope it's more pleasant next time."

Illya froze for a millisecond as the words laced with scorn penetrated his recently malleable heart softened by the American's rough hand, before it calloused over.

"You are a terrible spy, Cowboy." Illya set his glance down, untouched.

Napoleon drained his own and looked up at Illya with a furrowed brow. "You're not drinking?"

"No. If you'll excuse me." Illya left without looking at the other man, but was courteous enough to give Waverly and Gaby some semblance of a nod, leaving the three of them on Solo's room balcony.

"Was it something I said?"

"Are you an idiot?" Gaby fumed. "Or a moron?"

"I think those are categorized the same, Gaby."

"Did that tire iron bash out what little brain you had, Solo?"

"I'll just leave you to it," Waverly told the pair calmly. He knew a Gaby-plosion when he saw one. Solo would learn eventually.

Gaby waved him out before turning her glare back onto Napoleon.

"Stop glaring at me, Gaby. I don't have a woman's psychic communicative powers. You're going to have to verbalize your bitch-out." He told her derisively. Gaby slapped him. Solo blinked. "That's forward of you. You know," his tongue caressed the inside of his stinging cheek, "In my line of work—what follows usually includes less clothing."

"You're an arrogant, heartless pig, Napoleon Solo." Gaby scathed. "You hurt Illya, you broke his heart. I could hear it snapping close from where I stood. It was like watching a sweet puppy being disembowelled before being thrown to blood-thirsty sharks. You did that, Solo." Her finger jabbed harshly at where she knew his heart was supposed to be.

Napoleon sighed and slid his shades up his nose, blocking his bright blue eyes from sight. "The puppy, as you put it, was growing attached to things he shouldn't. He's K.G.B., you'd think he'd know better—that his masters would have strapped him down and tapped his eyes open."

"You're a _bastard,_ Solo. Illya is a man just like you—sorry, what I'm looking at is below a man. I'm disappointed in you, Napoleon." She turned her nose at him, before leaving him in utter silence. "You're a coward, American."

Solo glared after her before he huffed and downed Illya's abandoned glass. He sighed and poured himself another two fingers for good measure. He stared at the remaining few tendrils of smoke that still wisped from the smouldering tape in the ashtray. The one that they decided to burn together to defy their handlers and wishes of their government and burn as an act of solidarity.

He could have let Illya die many times; but that first, when the Russian's boat exploded he'd completely lost it. He literally drove the truck _off_ the pier and _onto_ the search boat _in_ the water.

Solo wasn't the kind of person that Illya needed—he was egotistical, vain, arrogant, a playboy, cruel and a natural con artist. Illya, for all his harsh life, deserved someone who was kind and understanding and tough and patient, like Gaby. Those two were supposed to be together—not the two of them. It had been too close, too close when Napoleon had given Illya his father's watch back.

So he told Illya that he hated spending time with him, when it had been the best time he'd had since his time was taken over by the C.I.A. A first time he ever truly saw a light at the end of the tunnel. U.N.C.L.E. with Illya and Gaby.

"Way to go, Solo. You're meant to be your name. Alone."

He poured himself another glass.

* * *

Illya stood in the center of his and Gaby's destroyed hotel room. Though it had been his hearts reaction to his handler's order to kill Solo for possession of the tape; it was now a reflection of his heart. He had disobeyed that order. He had not killed Napoleon. He'd burned the tape. He couldn't go back without consequence. His heart had been rejected.

His fingers grazed over his father's watch on the opposite wrist. He had lost it during the mission and had no hope of finding it, no matter how man THRUSH men he broke and killed. And instead of killing him as he had been ordered as well, Napoleon returned the precious item to him—the one thing he had allowed of his father's… and then he completely shoved the Russian away.

The American didn't even give him the dignity to do it in private before Gaby and Waverly arrived—couldn't give him the respect and dignity he deserved as a man.

There was a soft knock at the door but he ignored it. If he said nothing, they would go away.

But Gaby entered despite that. The door clicked softly behind her. "Oh, Illya." She murmured, looking around at the devastation that eclipsed the room like a tornado. "Did you—" her small hand laid between the shoulder blades of his broad shoulders. His back tensed at her touch for a moment, before the tension seemed collapse beneath her touch in defeat.

"No. Earlier, when обработчик called." His was low and broken, his accent heavy. "This is how I feel on inside now."

"Don't listen to that _bastard, mein Bär_.You deserve better than that."

Illya shook his head and suddenly straightened. "No. Is my fault. I was глупый. I let emotion скомпрометировать мое суждение. I… have been away to long." He took a deep breath. "I must speak with Waverly." He turned from Gaby and strode around the broken furniture to their bedroom.

Gaby gaped after him for a moment as what he said completely registered to her, before rushing after him. "Illya! Illya, what are you talking about?"

Illya pulled his suitcase from under the bed and laid it at the foot, opening it. "I go back to Russia. Is good for me." He started to fill the empty case with his folded clothing.

"What? No, Illya!" Gaby rushed to him, grabbing his wrists, preventing him. "You—you can't—you—"

Illya extracted his hands gently from her pleading grasp and cupped her cheek in a gesture of sensitivity he only showed her. "My beautiful Chop Shop Girl. The first girl I ever loved. You don't need me to be strong—you do that on your own."

"You don't have to go," she reasoned feebly, leaning into his calloused palm, tears in her eyes.

"I go." He nodded. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead tenderly, inhaling her beautiful scent; cinnamon and summer days; home and love. When he straightened, his face was stoic again, shoulders stiff, coiled, his eyes a blue-steel trap. Gone was the rejected man, and back was the K.G.B. Agent. He snapped his full case closed and picked it up by the handle. He left her standing their, her eyes brimmed with tears.

Gaby heard the click of the room door, it sounding so loud and final. A single sob left her throat before she roughly wiped the tears from her eyes. She boiled with anger as she marched for the door—this feeling could rival even one of Illya's legendary outbursts, and it was directed at a single man: Napoleon Solo.

* * *

Napoleon flirted half-heartedly with the concierge from the front desk as she dropped off wine he had called up; the very same woman who he had slept with that first night.

He'd see the others soon. When they all packed up and Waverly sent them to U.N.C.L.E. HQ. Gaby would be scathing and pissed—like a lethal chipmunk. Illya would be professional, stony, angry like when they had their second-meet across the table from each other. That was how it should have stayed.

The woman gave a scream as the room door burst open, slamming against the wall behind. Solo jumped himself. And in the doorway stood the lethal chipmunk herself, absolutely furious. He could almost attest that her eyes glowed red with the heat of the death glare she was giving the whimpering other woman.

" _Raus, du Hure_!" Gaby spat vehemently at the woman in German.

"Well," Napoleon remarked, swirling his glass of wine. "I think that's your cue to leave, darling. Please forgive her; I'm withholding—it makes her cranky."

The frightened woman edged around the fuming one and quickly closed the door behind her, leaving the American and German alone.

"So, what do I owe this unpleasant surprise, hm?" Napoleon drained his glass and set it on the small round tea table. It had been steady in flow, the bottle just freshly brought. "Here to finish your tirade from earlier?"

If he had planned on saying anything more, it was going to have to wait in lieu of Gabby suddenly grabbing the vase on the table beside her near the door. Flowers tumbled from the vase as she rose it overhead, and with a scream, launched it at him.

"Whoa!" Napoleon quickly dove under the table, just in time as the vase crashed onto the table smashing, and shattering his empty wine glass and bottle of Inglenook Cabernet Sauvignon. Red wine dripped from the edge of the table like blood. "What the hell, Gaby?" he came out of hiding slowly, tensing as he found Gaby that much closer, her chest heaving.

"Illya is leaving! He's going back to Russia!"

"What?" Solo stood. "What you mean he's going back to Russia?"

"You—you gave him hope. You lead him along—and then stomp his heart without warning. He's humiliated. He's ashamed that he let his emotions control his actions of the mission."

Napoleon's heart tightened, but he shrugged his shoulders. "It's his own decision. He's a grown man."

"He goes to Russia, and we never see him again! He helped destroy the tape, do you think they will let him off with a slap on the wrist?" her expression was pained. "Napoleon…"

He sighed. "He's much better off anywhere that's not near me. He deserves someone better…"

"Whether its true or not, he _wants_ **you**." Napoleon remained tight-lipped. "I would kill you right now, you _bastard_ if it weren't so important that you live right now. You need to stop Illya from making the biggest mistake of his life, even bigger than loving you." She shook her head. "You're stubborn, but I never thought you for a coward."

"Well, I am." Napoleon said curtly. "And we'll all pay the price."

She closed the distance between them fast and slapped him for the second time that morning. She grabbed his arm and twisted it, flipping the much larger man with ease. Napoleon grunt as he hit the floor, very much caught by surprise.

"Gaby—!"

She knelt on the man's chest, pinning him. "You love him back. Why are you so afraid to admit it?"

"Get off of me, Gaby. This is ridiculous!" But she held fast.

"No. What is ridiculous is you behaving like a _Jugendliche_ and just letting the best man you could have fly away on a plane." She grasped his face. "Breaking hearts that can be healed if you have courage enough." And suddenly, her lips crashed to his. There was nothing romantic about it. In fact, it was harsh and vicious.

"Mmph! Gaby!" Napoleon threw the woman off of him, wiping at his assaulted mouth. "What the hell was that?"

Gaby sat up, completely unaffected. "Is that the kind of love you want?" she asked, her expression harsh. "Stop being afraid!"

Napoleon sighed and stood. "You're insane, Gaby. I've never been more afraid of you in my life."

"Good." She replied, and took his proffered hand, pulling her to her feet. "Now get out of here and find our Russian before I break your nose and disfigure your pretty face." She grinned.

And the American ran.

* * *

Illya sighed internally as he nodded his thanks to the driver as he stowed his case in the trunk and slid into the backseat. He could easily drive himself, but Waverly had insisted. The Russian had wanted to refuse, but he didn't think it safe to have such heavy impact under his hands right now.

The driver took up behind the wheel and started the car. He started to pull from the curb.

"Wait!" an all too familiar American accent called from the hotel steps.

"Ignore him." Illya said defiantly. The driver nodded and continued to pull from the curb. He did not want to talk to the man, he didn't want to hear what he said. No matter how desperately he would have liked to stay, he was going back to Russia.

Napoleon took it up a very convincing notch and literally threw himself at the car. The vehicle thumbed at the man's weight, and the driver slammed on the breaks this time.

"Peril—Illya, please!"

"Sir?" the driver gulped nervously as he met the murderous blue eyes in the rear-view mirror.

Illya inhaled deeply, his hearing taking a ringing tone as the blood rushed in his ears. His finger tapped against his thigh as he anger started to boil. What more humiliation could Solo possible have to give him? Napoleon scrambled from the trunk of the car and to the passenger door. Too late, Illya should have thought to lock it.

The dark-haired American slid boldly into the backseat with the furiously baking Russian. "Could you give us a moment, please? Thank you." He told the driver politely. One look at Illya and the driver was smart enough to know that being in confined space with the man at the moment was not the best idea. The American must really have a death wish.

Napoleon looked at him. Illya refused to look back, instead staring straight ahead. His expression was tight, his finger tapping away at his thigh like a timer. He knew he deserved it if Illya decided to put his head through the door window.

"Illya, what I said on the balcony—"

"I got your message loud and clear, Cowboy." His tone was cold, void. "Why do you come here, to humiliate me more?"

He shook his head. "I don't want you to go back to Russia. I want you to stay, with Gaby—and me."

He punched the back of the driver's seat, his fist punching through the leather. Napoleon couldn't help the flinch. Illya breathed sharply in and out of his nose. "You insult me—shame me." When he pulled his fist out, clenched in his palm was a spring and the foam from inside of the seat.

"Illya," Napoleon took the man's shaking fist in both of his own. "I was afraid. You deserve someone better than a con artist and manwhore. It's easier to be someone else, to be in a fake bubble that nothing real can penetrate." His fingers gently started to massage the knuckled hand.

"You think I not afraid?" Illya finally looked at him.

Napoleon scoffed at that. "I've seen you. You're not afraid of anything."

He shook his head once, his fist slowly coming unclenched in Napoleon's gentle touch. "That's mission, that's work. That's K.G.B Officer Kuryakin. Illya's just a man."

"I'm sorry." He said, and Illya allowed the man to interlace their fingers. He liked the warm rough palm against his. They have both killed, but they were also capable of love. "Will you stay and give a stupid American another chance?"

Illya was quiet, his gaze turning from the pleading blue eyes, to their clasped hands. "The American is stupid, I agree." He said quietly and Napoleon grinned at the blond man. "I suppose I can stay little while longer, make sure lesson take. Yes?"

"I very stupid, so you're going to have to stay for a long time." Napoleon reasoned, grinning.

"This is reasonable." Illya nodded.

"Perhaps protect me from the German chipmunk, too?"

Illya chuckled. "No way, man." He answered in a very distinct American accent that had Napoleon blinking at him in surprise.

 _f_

 **The Man From U.N.C.L.E.**

* * *

 **Russian to English Translations:**

обработчик = Handler  
глупый = Foolish  
скомпрометировать мое суждение = Compromise my judgement

 **German to English Translations:**

Bastard = Bastard  
mein Bär = My Bear  
Raus, du Hure! = Get out, you whore!  
Jugendliche = Adolescent

y


End file.
